


An Ice Like Glass (or, While You're Waiting for Closure, Try the Gelato)

by loquaciousquark



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skating, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Romance, Trials, figure skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:20:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25149871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciousquark/pseuds/loquaciousquark
Summary: Danarius's trial has begun at last. Varania comes to terms with old loss; Fenris and Hawke come to terms with everything else. A sequel to"The Respite Hollow,"a figure skating AU.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Comments: 13
Kudos: 102





	An Ice Like Glass (or, While You're Waiting for Closure, Try the Gelato)

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel to [The Respite Hollow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22273618/chapters/53191744), written before March. I hope you enjoy this world I can't seem to get out of me! Again, all my endless thanks to [Lethendralis on Tumblr](https://lethendralis-paints.tumblr.com/) for posting the artwork that led to this wonderful fever dream in the first place.
> 
> —
> 
> **Warnings:** discussion of sexual abuse and abusive power dynamics. Y'know, Danarius at his best.

All three of them are quiet as Varania lets them into her rented flat. The _click_ of the lock turning behind them echoes in the small, sparsely furnished living room; without a word, Varania goes through to the little kitchenette just beyond, and a moment later Hawke hears the sounds of water being poured, the ticking of her range as the gas catches for the kettle. Hawke slings the strap of her bag over her head and sets the whole thing on the table by the door, a salvaged piece with a broken drawer repainted a cheerful green. A glance at her phone tells her she has nineteen missed calls, eight voicemails, and over sixty text messages. She ignores them all.

Fenris hasn't moved save to lean back against the closed door. He looks _exhausted_ , the fingers of one hand pressed hard into his closed eyes, heavy lines tugging down the corners of his mouth, his shoulders in the crisp black suit slumped under a weight she can only imagine.

"Hey," she says softly, and the thin white tattoos that run down his chin glint in the passing shadow as he drops his hand. "Are you with me?"

"Always," he says tiredly, one corner of his mouth crooked up in a smile she can almost believe. It disappears a moment later without a trace. "Hawke, I…"

"Come on." She takes his hand carefully, leads him to the small spare bedroom Varania has lent them for the duration of Danarius's trial. They don't know how long this little flat will be needed for Fenris's testimony, a suite by only the most generous definition, but the prosecution, headed by a tall, stern woman named Cassandra, had told them to plan for at least a few weeks' stay just in case. She'd liked Cassandra from the start despite the circumstances of their meeting, likes more that she seems unreservedly incorruptible. They'll need that against the lies Danarius will bring.

She shuts the bedroom door behind them, then guides Fenris gently to the side of the bed. His eyes have closed again, though he lets her bustle aimlessly around him, fetching his change of clothes, the hangers for the suit he will need again tomorrow. It's not until she reaches for the knot of his tie that he moves at last—and it's sharper than she expects, a fearful clutch at her fingers to push her away, green eyes that search the room blindly before landing on her without a trace of recognition.

_Fuck_ , Hawke thinks, shit and _damn_. She'd shoot the man herself if she could get the gun near enough to matter.

"Fenris," she says instead, gentle as she can make it, "it's just me. It's all right."

"Hawke." Surprise in his voice, fading alarm. Shame, too, and she could eat her own tongue. "Forgive me. I thought…"

"It's perfectly fine. Would you rather do it yourself?"

"Yes," he says, the word rough with six straight hours of testimony behind him, a decade of torture behind that. "Forgive me."

She shakes her head, the anger boiling in her blood not right for this room or for Fenris to bear, and after a few moments he hands her the freed tie. His shirt follows, and then his belt; he does permit Hawke to remove his shoes for him, though the way he hunches into himself at the touch of his ankle is enough she doesn't linger. "I'm here," she says again, for his sake as well as her own as he lurches to his feet, sheds his pants, and sinks once more to the bedside in as much open fatigue as she's ever seen from him. Even the longest workout days before Worlds never drained him so badly that she feared for his recovery.

"Fenris," she says again, and once more, until he forces his eyes open to look at her. "Take a nap. I'll have some food for you when you wake up."

"Hawke…"

She leans down, carefully cups his jaw in both hands. He doesn't flinch at that one, thank goodness, and when she bends to kiss him he lets out a long, slow breath and presses up into her touch. "You are the bravest, most wonderful man I have ever known," she whispers against his mouth. "You gave more of yourself today than most people give in a lifetime. Go to sleep."

He manages a wry smile at that, realer than the last. She stays only long enough to help him into a pair of sleeping pants and a worn black t-shirt that she knows won't chafe the tattoos, and then she tucks him under a lightweight quilt patterned with feathers and cuts off the lights. She pauses at the doorway, her heart twisted up into a wire-tight knot; his eyes are already closed against the pillow, his breathing slow and steady. The late afternoon sun filters through the curtains to turn the room a dim, comfortable blue.

"I love you," she says into the silence. Fenris does not move.

Hawke leaves the door cracked when she goes—experience has taught her his nightmares are better faced with company—and makes the short turn back into the living room. Varania waits for her there on the small grey sofa, one of its upholstered arms worn to weft and replaced with a colorful handmade patchwork. A cup of tea steams at her elbow; another sits on the low wooden table in front of the sofa, and Hawke could cry out of gratitude.

Well. She could cry for a few different reasons, if she's honest about it, but that's neither here nor there. She sits down next to Varania, wraps both hands around the teacup left for her, and presses its warmth to her lips without drinking. Outside, a bus passes down the hotel's narrow street, honks at some offending pedestrian, _guarda dove stai andando, sciocco,_ before dwindling again into the distant, living murmur of the city around them. The small TV atop the corner bureau plays a muted news broadcast about a museum's electrical fire from the day before.

"He is asleep?" Varania says eventually. She does not look away from the broadcast.

"For now."

"Good."

Not quite the right word. Close enough. Hawke takes a sip of the tea: good, strong, ginger and something like oranges. She'd like to close her eyes for a few minutes herself, but every time she does she hears Fenris's voice in measured, even Italian, his gaze steady on the prosecutor, listing out for the court's reference dates and times and facts and a thousand little violations. _Avevo sedici anni quando mi baciò per la prima volta—_

Even now she can feel the imprint of Varania's fingers in her death-grip, hear the stilting, choked translations she'd breathed in her ear. Not all of it, not every word. Sometimes Varania had swallowed too hard and turned away from her, white-faced and shuddering. She hadn't asked for those, and Varania had not offered. Fenris's voice had never wavered, even when Danarius had stared at him from the defense box.

_He made me beg. Every mistake, every perceived slight. Everything he gave me depended on a sufficient display of my gratitude. So did the end of any discipline he felt I needed._

Her stomach churns. Hawke sets the tea down again, still mostly untouched, and buries her face in her hands. She would cry if she could, only there's nothing left in her but the bite of bile.

_What kind of discipline? Physical, emotional? Sexual?_

A bitter twist to his mouth; an answer that hadn't needed translation. _Sì. Tutto._

The cushion shifts as Varania leans forward to pluck the remote from the coffee table. A few seconds later the TV's audio whispers through the room, only a few steps off mute; even so, Hawke recognizes the newscaster's voice, and she drags her fingers down her cheeks until she can see the screen. An elegant woman, shoulder-length blonde hair in a careful twist; she'd commentated on the courtroom steps as they'd entered the stately building this morning, microphone in hand, shoulder to shoulder with a half-dozen other reporters all doing the same. She'd hunted Hawke down in the washroom at the first recess—the famous skating partner, the fiancée—and asked for her thoughts on the trial. The scandal to the sport, the _embarrassment_. Hawke's own Italian is better than it's ever been, thanks to Fenris, but she'd barely managed _scusa, scusa, non parla_ before practically fleeing back to her seat.

Danarius's picture appears at the top right of the screen: a recent shot, his beard unkempt, his cheeks hollow above a drab green jumpsuit, his ankles chained so closely together that he must hobble when he walks. Hawke's satisfaction at the sight is dulled, though; she knows what it's cost Fenris to meet him so often lately, even like this. _Al dramma giudiziario si aggiunge quello strettamente personale…_

Varania listens for a few moments, then says quietly, "More evidence has been released. Some leaked. Pictures, videos. Reports from his service staff from several years ago."

"About Fenris?"

"I'm not sure. Some of it, I think. Not all."

Her own ignorance appalls her. "Will they—would they show that on the news? The pictures they mention? The videos?"

"The worst as you think, no. Never. But…" she pauses, listening again, and then her lips tighten until they turn white. "They will show one now. I'm not sure…"

But the broadcast answers for her. It's a shaky phone video, filmed around a corner into a luxurious dining room with tall, arched windows that can only belong to Danarius. Danarius himself stands there at the tableside in a grey suit and tie, a few years younger, clearly unaware of the camera's existence; and before him stands Fenris in thin workout gear, head lowered, hands fisted at his sides, every line of his back stiffened like carved marble. His face is not visible, turned away as he is from the unknown camera—a small mercy, as Hawke might very well shatter from this alone—but she knows the shape of him better than anyone, even if his hair hasn't yet gone fully white, even if the deferent bend to his shoulders clenches something violent in her chest.

She can't quite parse the Italian, Danarius's reprimands too quick and too harsh, but the gestures are clear enough. Fenris's back grows stiffer and stiffer, though he never lifts his head, never says more than a murmured _sì, padrone, sì, maestro._ And yet something must show in his expression; all at once Danarius slaps him across the face, openhanded, a stinging thing meant to humiliate and not to harm. Fenris's head recoils with the blow, but he does not move otherwise. Danarius slaps him again.

_Mi scuso, maestro_.

Hawke doesn't even realize she's been crying until the tears begin dropping to the back of her clenched fists in her lap. She can't—she _can't—_ and then Danarius reaches up, smiling now, to curl his fingers around the back of Fenris's neck until he leans forward obediently, and she fumbles for the remote so fast she almost drops it before she can jab the channel button. Some children's show instead, brightly colored; some jangling off-key song about the taste of the color blue. There's not a tissue in sight; she uses the cuff of her sweater instead, smearing mascara into the grey wool. Shit and damn and _shit—_

Varania is crying, too.

She hadn't even noticed, too caught up in her own misery, but Varania's hand is white-knuckled over her mouth, her eyes clenched shut, tears spilling over her cheeks and into the curves of her fingers. Her breath hitches between the sobs.

"Oh, no," Hawke says aloud, tear-thick, and before she can stop herself she leans over and gathers Varania into her arms. She stiffens at first, just as Fenris—no, no, not there, not yet—but after a moment or two she gives way like a crumbling dam, her fist against her mouth and her shoulders heaving. Hawke holds her as best she can, stroking down her arms, her back, her hair, murmuring nonsense comfort where there is no comfort that can be given, not really. It's so unfair—it's so horribly _unfair_ , all of it, and abruptly all Hawke can hear under Varania's weeping is the condescension of Danarius's attorney, the man short and seedy and so self-satisfied she'd longed to knock him clean off the bench.

_Isn't it true you were_ glad _he took you in as his ward? Isn't it true he provided for your every possible need? He plucked you from the streets, after all, gave you world-class training in an expensive sport, paid for your mother's hospital, paid for your sister's schooling. He gave you a luxurious home, lavish meals. We have heard recordings of your…_ effusive _thanks for his generosity._

_Well? Weren't his affections reasonable reward for a beloved favorite desperate to show his gratitude? Look at all he did for you. Look at how eager you were to please him. Consider the facts, sir. Isn't it fair—_

_Isn't it fair to say you_ loved _him?_

She closes her eyes. Fenris hadn't flinched, had kept his voice level as ice. _I did not love him. I told him no the first night he took me to his rooms and he said he had bought me, that I belonged to him. He said there would never be a 'no' from me again. It was never love._

_Ah, sir. And yet you stayed. Even when your mother was dead, even when your sister fled the expensive art school, you stayed for almost three more years in the home of a man you claim regularly raped you since the year you turned seventeen. Come now. Come now, sir. What is more likely: that you let this man control you for so long because you had no choice, despite every opportunity given you to cry out for help—or the_ truth _, sir, the truth that you stayed with him because you knew everyone else had abandoned you, and he was the one person who loved you without reservation?_

Her breath catches at the memory, a new flash of impotent rage at the insinuation roaring through her blood all over again. Fenris had only looked at the lawyer in contempt. _My mother was dying, and I was twelve. Danarius told me he could save her, and the cost to me was my home. My family. When she died and he could not hold her over me any longer, he took my sister's education and bartered for that instead, and the cost was my body. What good were my winnings to him? He already had the money, the influence, the connections at every level. I had nothing to offer but myself, and he knew it. When she disappeared, I stayed because I had nowhere else to go. He would always find me. Do you understand? When the entire world has become a cage, what does it matter if the bars are iron or gold? I had lost everything important to me. It was easier to endure when the grief was numb._

_What was left of me to care?_

Hawke shuts her eyes, lets out a slow, shuddering sigh into Varania's hair. It's like a reel inside her head, impossible to turn off; against her own volition her mind raises the courtroom's walls around her again, even with Fenris's sister still in her arms. The defense had snidely asked why he'd left at last, then, what terrible thing had finally been enough to break the hold after the rest of the horrors. Fenris had found Hawke across the courtroom, just for an instant, and she'd quirked a smile in answer.

_I watched him end the careers of two skaters at a national competition for no other reason than that he could, that one of them was competition to me. That alone was something I could not forgive. Then I took silver and not gold, and he promised me I would do better the next time. I knew what he meant, and I couldn't bear the thought of it._

_And then?_

A flash in his green eyes, his voice clear and absolutely sure.

_And then I woke up._

Hawke opens her eyes.

The room is the same as it was, the slight fade to the floral wallpaper not dampening its cheer, the TV still quietly teaching her how to add small numbers together. The wide window across from the sofa still shows the late afternoon sun, grown a little later than before, and it catches in the red of Varania's hair like fire. Her crying has stopped, though she still has not pulled away from Hawke's embrace.

She'd been wrong before, Hawke realizes. She _does_ have comfort she can give.

Not much, given the depth of the wound, but more than nothing, if only because she knows how Fenris looks when he smiles. When he laughs. She knows the rough, warm sound of his voice in the smallest hours of the morning when he complains about her cold feet and steals every blanket they share for himself.

She knows the way his breath catches for her when they're on the ice, clear like glass, just the two of them, and she finds his hand without looking. When she abandons herself to total trust in his throws and comes down again safely, unable to stop her grin as she teases out his reluctant approval, when she makes some awful joke that she _knows_ is awful just because it will make him laugh.

She knows how his eyes change when she tells him she loves him.

A car honks outside; a pair of goldfinches arrive to perch on the windowsill across from the sofa, peering inquisitively through the glass before darting off again in a flash of russet and gold. The shadows have softened, deepened without her realizing; the sky has just begun to pink around the clouds' edges. Varania has straightened again, though she will not look Hawke in the face.

"Forgive me," she says, still tear-thick, ashamed.

"Nothing to forgive. Never. Oh, Varania, I'm sorry."

"It was me. In the dining room—the argument. They were talking of me…"

"I'm sorry," Hawke says again, and then because the whole situation is so absolutely wretched, a preposterous weight of human grief coalesced around the three of them in this tiny flat, she can't help the weary smile that creeps across her face. "What a mess. What a nightmare of a person, honestly."

Varania snorts, a pale, dry thing, though her red-rimmed gaze flicks to Hawke at last. "An understatement, I think."

"Of the century." Hawke lets her forehead rest against Varania's temple and sighs. "Somehow I doubt Fenris will appreciate these tears, even if they are on his behalf."

This time the noise is more laugh and less pain. "True. You know him well."

"Well enough, sometimes. When I'm very, very lucky. Sometimes I wish I'd known him growing up, just because I might understand him that much better now." She smiles. "Well, anyway. Even when I imagine him younger, he's still all himself, prickly as ever. Just smaller."

Varania gives an odd twitch of her fingers, a restless, tentative gesture, and her voice is unsure. "I…would you…"

"Hm?"

"I have some—some drawings," she says all at once, and she looks away to the kitchen counter. "I don't think—but—would you like to see them?"

"Of course," Hawke says, mystified, and when Varania rises stiffly to fetch her sketchbook Hawke takes a sip of the now long-cold tea. Still soothing, though. It helps more than she expects.

Varania returns, flipping through to a certain page, then thrusts the book at Hawke a little awkwardly. Hawke sets down the cup and takes the book in its place, the scent of thick parchment paper and graphite filling her nose, and—

" _Oh_ ," she says, startled.

They're Fenris. All of them. A young Fenris here, small and crouched over a toy, maybe six or seven, not fully detailed but with enough impressioned strokes she can sense his annoyance at the observer. Another portrait, more finished: his face in profile, that strong nose softened with youth, the chin still just as stubborn, hair shaded dark. Fenris near twelve, sitting cross-legged on a park bench, a pair of patched ice skates dangling from their knotted laces over his knee. He's smiling in that one, looking down at his hands. A small smile, faintly embarrassed.

"We didn't…" Varania starts, her fingers twisted tightly around each other. "There are no photos that I know of. Not before he…none of us together, anyway. That is as close as I remember."

Hawke can barely speak through the unexpected lump in her throat. "These are incredible. I can practically hear his voice." She gives a choked laugh. "Look at those angry eyebrows. They're exactly the same."

At Varania's gesture, she flips through a few more pages: all Fenris at various ages, interspersed here and there with random sketches of draped mannequins and idle doodles of couture gowns. His eyes are always right, even when she has drawn him very young, younger than Hawke can imagine Fenris ever being. Still, she's determined not to cry again, and she runs a thumb down the lines of one carefully detailed drawing of Fenris only a few years younger than he is now, his eyes hard and staring out of the page at her. This is the strong jaw she knows, the proud nose, the tattooed lines cutting over his chin. Such a dear, precious face.

"That was before I spoke with him again," Varania says. "I saw him on television. I had thought he might be dead, but instead…I was glad to be wrong, even if I didn't know it at the time."

"You really have a talent," Hawke tells her, and touches the penciled mouth. "I know you're set up as you are now, but you could go somewhere with this if you wanted."

"Thank you, but I'm content where I am. Someday, perhaps."

_Perhaps not_ , Hawke hears in her voice, and she smiles to hear it.

They pore through a few more pages together, Varania telling the stories behind some of the sketches: uncertain at first, then stronger as she warms to her subject. She's just finished a saga of a very small Fenris fetching a ball from a neighbor's roof and tearing his trousers in the process when they both hear a shift from beyond Fenris's cracked bedroom door. Varania breaks off mid-sentence; Hawke cocks her head, just in case, and soon enough the rustle comes again, followed by a low word in his voice that she thinks is her name.

The belated realization strikes her as she stands. "Damn. I promised him food. I completely forgot."

"Oh." Varania pauses in her collection of loose sketchbook pages. "I made sandwiches in the kitchen earlier, along with the tea. Will those do?"

"You're marvelous," Hawke tells her, and drops a kiss on the crown of her head before she can think better of it. Then she's around the little corner and after a brief knock, she lets herself into their room and closes the door behind her.

It's dimmed with the start of sunset, the shadows long and stretched over the walls to turn the room a gentle, fading purple. The light feathered quilt has spilled over the end of the bed, the round colorful rug thrown over the bare floorboards beneath it softened into washed pastels. Fenris has propped himself against the headboard, face still a little puffy from sleep, one hand pressed to his temple, but as she approaches he looks up and smiles at the sight of her. "Hawke."

"There you are, sleepyhead," she says softly, and comes to sit on the side of the bed at his hip. "Look at you. I've never seen someone so adorably rumpled in all my life."

He snorts, but he allows her to run her fingers through his hair to smooth it without complaint, to slide her thumb along the pillow-creases on his cheek until the red marks begin to fade. "How long did I sleep?"

"A hundred years."

" _Hawke_ ," he sighs, and then all at once his eyes sharpen on hers, the haze of sleep vanished like a blown light. "You've been crying."

Ah, yes. "Well, so it goes," she says, and leans forward until she can kiss him on the corner of his mouth. "Really, who hasn't, these days?"

He shakes his head, and though he allows her another kiss he takes her chin and leans her away afterwards, gently, until he can see her face clearly in the sunset light. "What happened?"

"Your sister and I bonded. Don't look at me like that, it's true."

His mouth is so bitter. "This is not the way I would have chosen."

"My darling, precious lover," Hawke says, dropping her chin to his chest and wrapping both arms solidly around his waist, "if we could choose to avoid painful situations, I frankly would have never gotten past the fall at nationals. And then where would _we_ be, mm?"

He gives a huff of laughter that she feels more than hears, and he smooths one hand over her head, down her shoulders and spine and up again. "An interesting proposal."

"Certainly a less excruciating one."

"Hmm."

"Don't _hmm_ me. I could be gnawing on all my Olympic golds as we speak if Anders hadn't developed a bad case of the butterfingers."

He laughs again at that, audibly this time, and Hawke smothers her pleased smile in his shirt. Admittedly, Anders is low-hanging fruit when it comes to Fenris, but in situations like this, she'll take what she can get. His voice rumbles in her ear. "Fortunate for us both the past is past, then."

"It had better be." Hawke draws in a breath, then pushes up until she can see his face, until she can get her free hand up to his jaw and run her thumb over his cheek, his chin, his mouth. "Fenris," she says quietly, and does not ask if he is all right.

He catches her hand, shuts his eyes as he kisses the pad of her thumb. A long, slow sigh, and then he moves to the hollow of her palm, the heel of her wrist. He looks at her again, a steady green, and her heart flips despite herself. "There is nothing he can do to hurt me now, Hawke. Do you understand?"

"I always understood," she says, because it's true, somehow, even if it's not any easier for the knowing. "It doesn't mean I like watching you go through it."

One corner of his mouth crooks up. "A comfort indeed."

"Ass." She kisses him again, slow and deep and thorough, his arm around her shoulders, her hand cupped to his jaw. _Oh_ , but she loves him, and she tells him so when it is over, just to see that change in his eyes again.

"Hawke," he breathes. As if it is new every time, always.

"I mean it," she says, unrepentant, and pushes her weight off of him at last. "Tell me, are you hungry? Your sister made sandwiches."

"I…not quite yet. Perhaps later."

"Hm. What about gelato? Your throat's probably sore from today, and there's that little neighborhood place right around the corner."

He shakes his head, smiling. "You are impossible."

"I'll even buy yours for you, if you come."

"A tempting offer," he says dryly, but allows himself to be tugged to his feet and coaxed into a pair of jeans, pulled gently from the dark into the brighter living room where Varania waits for them both. The sunlight has gone long and gold, filling the room with brimming warmth; the TV plays its music softly over the sounds of the city outside.

The blotchiness to Varania's face has faded, only the faintest shine to her eyes hinting that she has been crying, but Fenris goes to her immediately nonetheless. "I'm all right," she says before he can ask, and lifts her hand when he tries again. "Truly. All is well. And you?"

"Varania…" he says, his voice quiet, and when she does not step away he gently grips her shoulder. "Well enough. I'm grateful you came today."

Her smile is small but real. "Of course."

They're framed perfectly by the wide window, all that gold light gleaming along their mirrored profiles, and Hawke can't help herself. The click of the camera shutter on her phone gives her away, though, and both siblings look to her with mingled surprise and exasperation. "I'm sorry," she says, though she isn't. "Here, I'll text it to you. It's time you had a picture of the two of you together anyway." She thumbs their names, emoji kisses trailing after Fenris's entry in her contacts, then stuffs her phone into her back pocket. "Varania, come get gelato with us. We can walk down by the river after."

"Oh," she says, startled. "I…all right."

Hawke lets them go ahead of her as she collects her bag at the door and slings the strap over her shoulder. She means to follow after, she does, but as she steps onto the little stoop and the front door clicks closed behind her she just…stops. It can't be helped, arrested as she is by the sight of them together in the sunset, walking side by side down the little garden path, Fenris gesturing as he tells Varania some story of their last competition, her ginger-red hair caught in glowing contrast to his stark white as his sister looks up at him and smiles.

_This_ , she thinks abruptly, fiercely. Two faces before an open window; a picture on a phone tucked into her pocket. Only the first of many. _He will never touch this again._

"Hawke?" Fenris, paused at the garden's edge to look back at her, one brow lifted in faint curiosity. Ah, how she loves him.

"Coming!" she calls instead, grinning, and jogs forward to join them at the end of the path.

—

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Beautiful, beautiful art by [lethendralis on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/lethendralis-paints):  
> 


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